The Witness

TWENTY-ONE

There was a Mercury station wagon with a Rose Tree Hunt Club decal in the rear window parked beside Matt Payne's silver Porsche in the underground parking lot of the building on Rittenhouse Square when the convoy rolled in.

"My mother's here," Matt said.

"I thought she might be," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said matter-of-factly, and then added, to Sergeant Holloran, "Francis, we can get him upstairs. You take the car around and park it in front."

"Yes, sir. You want me to come up, Chief?"

Coughlin hesitated just perceptibly.

"Yeah. You might as well see the layout."

The Highway Patrol RPC had dropped out, but otherwise, the convoy was the same as the one that had carried Matt to the Roundhouse. Malone's car had led the way from the Roundhouse, followed by Coughlin's Oldsmobile, and Jesus Martinez in a second unmarked Special Operations Ford.

Holloran stopped the car as near as he could get to the elevator. Charley McFadden got out and then turned to help Matt get out and onto his feet.

Coughlin got out of the front seat.

"You and me lock wrists, McFadden," Coughlin ordered. "I don't think Martinez could handle Matt."

"Hey. I'm not a cripple. I can manage," Matt said, standing on his good leg and waving the crutch. "I've got to learn to use this thing anyway."

Coughlin looked doubtful, but finally walked to Martinez.

"Park that wherever you can find a place," he ordered.

Matt, with Charley McFadden hovering around him, made his way to the elevator door, where Malone was waiting. He pushed the button to open the door, waited for Matt and McFadden to get in, and then joined them. When the door started to close, Matt leaned against the elevator wall, and then stuck his crutch into the opening, holding the door open.

Coughlin walked quickly to the door and then stopped.

"You got room for one more?" he asked.

"The more the merrier," Matt said.

Coughlin got in. The door closed.

Sergeant Carter was on the third-floor landing when the door opened.

He saluted Coughlin.

"Good morning, Chief," he said, and then nodded at Malone. " Lieutenant."

"Carter, isn't it?" Coughlin said, offering his hand.

"Yes, sir. I was here, checking the arrangements, and Mrs. Payne-she and your father are in your apartment, Payne-said you would be coming. So I thought I had better wait."

"Everything seems to be all right. The rent-a-cop in the garage is one of ours, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir. And we have a man in the lobby, downstairs, in a Holmes uniform."

"I see a problem," Matt said. "Getting up those stairs."

They all turned to look at the flight of stairs leading up to the attic apartment. They were steep and narrow.

"We could put a rope around your neck and haul you up," McFadden said cheerfully. "Or you could get on my back and I could carry you up piggyback."

"Or," Matt said, handing McFadden the crutch, "I can do this."

He sat down on the stairs, and then, using his arms and one good leg, started pushing himself up the stairs.

Thirty seconds later, he turned to see how far he had to go and found himself looking at the hem of a woman's slip and skirt. He craned his neck and identified the woman.

"I didn't know shrinks made house calls," he said.

"Only when the patient is an unquestioned danger to himself," Amelia Payne, M.D., said without missing a beat. "To judge by the way you did that, you've had some practice scuttling along like a crab." She turned and called, "Sound the trumpet. Our hero is home."

"Amy!" Patricia Payne said.

Matt got to his feet, and leaned against the wall at the head of the stairs.

"Where's your crutch?" Patricia Payne asked.

"Here," McFadden said, coming up the stairs and handing it to him. He stuck it under his arm and made it to the couch. His mother leaned over and kissed him.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Hi, Dad."

"How are you doing?" Brewster C. Payne said.

"If Amy didn't guzzle it down, there was a bottle of Scotch here."

"And I brought one," Brewster Payne said. "And a drink seems like a fine idea."

"That would depend on what they're giving him," Amy said.

"The Mayo Clinic has been heard from," Matt said.

"Let me see it, Matt," Amy said firmly.

He fished in his pocket and handed her the bottle of capsules from the hospital pharmacy.

Denny Coughlin and Jack Malone were now standing at the head of the stairs. Patricia Payne went and kissed Coughlin on the cheek, and then Coughlin introduced Malone.

"What is that stuff they gave him, Amy?" Coughlin asked.

"Just an antibiotic, Uncle Denny," Amy said. "I'm very sorry to report that alcohol is not contraindicated."

Brewster Payne laughed. "You and Lieutenant Malone will have a little taste, Denny?"

"Not for me, thank you," Malone said.

"I will, thank you."

"I still have the bottle of Jameson's you gave me, Uncle Denny," Matt said.

"I'll have a little of that, then, please," Coughlin said.

"So will I," Patricia Payne said. "In fact, I'll even make them."

Sergeant Carter and Jesus Martinez appeared at the head of the stairs. Martinez was wearing an electric blue suit, a shirt with very long collar points, and a yellow necktie. But what caught everyone's attention was that he held a pump shotgun in each hand.

"Hay-zus," Matt said. "Why don't you put those in that closet?" He pointed. "I guess everybody's met Sergeant Carter. Does everybody know Hay-zus Martinez?"

Patricia Payne made a valiant, but failed, effort to conceal her surprise at Officer Martinez.

"Matt's spoken of you often, Mr. Martinez," she said when he turned from putting the shotguns in a tiny closet at the head of the stairs. "I'm glad you'll be looking out for him."

"Yes, ma'am," Martinez said.

"We're about to have a drink. Can we offer you something?"

"No, ma'am, thank you."

"Officer Martinez, Amy," Coughlin said, "was with Charley McFadden when they caught the man who was responsible for what happened to Dutch Moffitt."

"I know who he is," Amy said, not very pleasantly. "Are those shotguns really necessary?"

"Probably not, Miss Payne," Malone said. "It's one of those cases where it's better to take the extra precaution."

"It'sDoctor Payne," Amy said.

"Sorry."

"Ease off, Amy," Matt said sharply.

Patricia Payne came out of the kitchen with two glasses. She handed one to Denny Coughlin and the other to Matt.

"Thank you," Matt said, and took a sip, and then turned and set the glass on the chair at the end of the couch.

The red light on his telephone answering machine was blinking. He shifted on the couch and stretched to push the button that would play his messages.

"Matt-" Brewster Payne said, stopping him.

"Dad?"

"There's some pretty unpleasant stuff on there," Brewster C. Payne said. "The only reason I didn't erase them was because I thought they would be of interest to Denny. Maybe you'd better wait until your mother and Amy have gone."

"Don't be silly, Brewster," Patricia Payne called from the kitchen. " I'm not a child, and I've already heard them."

"What are you talking about, Dad?" Amy asked.

Holloran appeared at the head of the stairs.

"Sorry, Chief, I had trouble finding a place to park."

"Push the button, Matt," Patricia Payne ordered. "Get it over with."

There were, it was later calculated when the tape was transcribed, forty-one messages on the tape, all that the thirty-minute tape would hold. Four of the messages were from people known to Matt Payne. One was a recorded offer to install vinyl siding at a special price good this week only. One was a cryptic message, a female voice saying, "You know who this is, call me after nine in the morning." Matt recognized the voice to be Helene Stillwell's, but had the presence of mind in the circumstances to shrug and shake his head and smile, indicating he had no idea who it might be.

The other thirty-five messages recorded on his machine were from persons unknown to him.

The voices were different (later voice analysis by police experts indicated that four individuals, three males and one female, had telephoned several times each) but the gist of the messages was that Matt Payne, variously described as a motherfucker, a honky, a pig, and a cocksucker (each noun coming with various adjectival prefixes, most commonly "fucking," "goddamn," and "motherfucking"), was going to be killed for having murdered Abu Ben Mohammed.

Patricia Payne, except to pass drinks around, stayed in the kitchen while the tape played. Amy, after the first thirty seconds or so, came and sat beside Matt on the couch, took a notebook from her purse, and made notes.

The policemen in the apartment looked either at the floor or the ceiling, and seemed quite uncomfortable. Sergeant Holloran's and Officer McFadden's faces quickly turned red with embarrassment and stayed that way, even after the tape suddenly cut off in midsentence and began to rewind.

"Nice friends you have, Matthew," Amy Payne broke the silence. "You ever hear what happens to people who roll around with the pigs in the mud?"

"I wonder how they got the number?" Matt asked. "I'm not in the book."

"There are ways to get unlisted numbers," Denny Coughlin said absently. "I'll want to take that tape with me, Matt, and see what the lab boys can make of it."

"Well, the thing to do is have Matt's number changed," Brewster C. Payne said.

"Some of that was spontaneous," Amy said thoughtfully. "But some, maybe most, seemed to me to be rehearsed, perhaps even read."

"What did you say, Amy?" Coughlin asked.

"If you know what to listen for, Uncle Denny," Amy said, "you sometimes can hear things in people's voices. I said, I think that some of those people called and said whatever came into their minds, but others, I think, seemed to be reading what they said, or at least had a good idea of what they were going to say before they said it. Oddly enough, those are the ones who sounded awkward or hesitant."

"Interesting," Coughlin said, not very convincingly. "I'd rather not have that number changed, Brewster. Maybe we can get Matt another line-that will take a day or two, probably-"

"No, it won't," Payne said.

"What won't?"

"Getting Matt another line. I think I know who to call."

"What I was saying, Brewster, is that I would like to leave that line as it is, and record what calls come in."

"Oh, I see what you mean."

"Have you got a spare tape for the machine, Matty?"

Matt considered that a minute, then replied, "No. I don't think so."

"Let's take it apart and see what we need," Coughlin said.

Matt opened the telephone recorder and removed the tape cassette and handed it to Coughlin.

Brewster C. Payne reached for the telephone and dialed a number.

"Mr. Arnold, please," he said. "Brewster Payne calling." There was a brief pause, and then he went on: "Jack, for reasons I would rather not get into, I need another telephone line installed in my son's apartment, in the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building on Rittenhouse Square, right away." There was another pause. "No, I don't mean first thing tomorrow. In the next hour or so is what I had in mind."

Matt saw Denny Coughlin smiling.

"No, I am not kidding," Brewster Payne went on. "You told me, Jack, to call you if I ever needed something. This is that call." There was one last pause. "Two hours would be fine, Jack. His name is Matthew M. Payne and it's the apartment in the attic. Thank you very much."

He turned somewhat triumphantly from the telephone.

"Two hours, Denny."

"You are an amazing man," Coughlin said.

"How kind of you to recognize that," Payne said smugly.

Patricia Payne groaned.

"I wonder where we can get one of these?" Coughlin said, examining the tape cassette.

"I bought that in the electronics store on Walnut and 15^th," Matt said.

"Okay. We'll take Officer Martinez with us when we go, and he can bring it back. Until we get another tape in there, just don't answer the phone. Better yet, take it off the hook."

He picked up his drink and drained it.

"Patty, Brewster," he said. "Matt's in good hands. You have nothing to worry about."

"Good try, Denny," Patricia Payne said. "But not a very successful one."

"Let's go," Coughlin said. He looked at Matt Payne. "I'll check in with you later, Matty."

"Thank you, Uncle Denny."

"Have you got any special orders for me, Chief?" Sergeant Carter said.

"No. You know what to do. Do it."

"Carter, why don't you and I take a run past Mr. Monahan's house?" Malone said.

"He's at Goldblatt's, sir. I checked."

"I want to check the arrangements at his house," Malone said tartly. "I know where he is."

"Yes, sir."

"It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Payne," Malone said. "Mr. Payne."

"It was nice to meet you, Lieutenant," Patricia Payne said, "and you too, Sergeant Carter. Thank you."

"Yes, ma'am," Carter said.

In a few moments everyone but the Paynes and Charley McFadden had gone down the steep stairway.

"Are you hungry, Matt?"

"I think there's some ribs in the refrigerator," Matt said.

"There's more ribs in the refrigerator than you know," she said. "I stopped off at Ribs Unlimited-I know how you like their ribs-on my way here and got you some."

"Then take yours home with you or give them to Amy."

"Why don't I heat them all up, and we can have lunch? I haven't had anything to eat, either."

"I've got to get back to the office," Brewster Payne said.

"Can you drop me at Hahneman, Dad?" Amy asked.

He nodded.

At the head of the stairs, Amy turned and pointed her finger at Matt.

"For once in your life, Matt, do what people tell you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, then, the three of us can eat the ribs," Patricia Payne said with forced cheerfulness.

"Four," Charley McFadden said. "Hay-zus will be back in a couple of minutes."

"The four of us, then," she agreed.

The telephone rang. Matt reached to pick it up, then stopped.

They all watched it wordlessly until, after seven rings, it stopped.

I have the strangest feeling that was Helene, Matt thought.

Charley McFadden suddenly got up from his chair and started down the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"From now on," Charley called, "I think we should keep that door locked."

Matt glanced at his mother. She looked very sad. When she sensed his eyes on her, she smiled.

"He really is large, isn't he?"

Jesus Martinez came back to the apartment almost an hour later, as Matt's mother was cleaning up the kitchen.

"They don't make that model anymore," he said. "I have been in every electronics store in Center City trying to find these."

He held up three tape cassettes.

The telephone had rung twice more while they had been eating. They hadn't answered it.

It rang again almost immediately after Matt had installed a new tape.

"What are we supposed to do?" McFadden asked. "Answer it? Or let the machine answer it?"

"Let the machine do it," Martinez said. "I think the chief wants the recording."

With the machine reconnected, it was possible to hear the caller's message.

It was a variation of the previous calls, no more scatologically obscene than the others, but enough, because of Patricia Payne-whom McFadden thought of as Matt's Mother-to cause McFadden to blush with embarrassment and his face to tighten in anger.

"I can rig that thing so we don't have to listen to that crap-sorry, Mrs. Payne," he said.

"That might be a good idea," she said. "But I'm leaving anyway, if that's what's bothering you."

"I'd like to get my hands on that guy," McFadden said.

"So would I," she said. "But don't you see, Charley, that's what they're trying to do, make us angry?"

"They're succeeding," Charley said.

She put her hat and coat on, and then went and stood before Matt, who was sprawled in an overstuffed leather armchair, his bad leg resting on a pillow sitting on the matching ottoman.

"After I leave, maybe you can get Charley to hang your art work," she said.

"What?" Matt asked, and then understood. "Oh, that. How did it get here?"

"Your dad and I brought it from the hospital," she said.

"Thank you."

"Now, there's plenty of food there for breakfast and sandwiches, and I'll bring more when I come tomorrow. But for dinner, your father called the Rittenhouse Club, and they'll bring you anything you want to eat."

"I don't like Rittenhouse Club food in the Rittenhouse Club," Matt said. "Why should I have them haul it over here?"

He saw the hurt look in her eyes and added, "I'm in a lousy mood, sorry, Mother."

"Are you in pain?"

He shook his head no.

"They do a very nice mixed grill, and you like their London broil, I know you do, and besides, beggars can't be choosers." She leaned over and kissed him.

"Ignore him," Patricia Payne said to Charley and Jesus. "Make him feed you."

"Yes, ma'am," Charley said. "I will."

When he came back up the stairs after locking the door after her, McFadden asked, "What art work is she talking about?"

"There's a great big picture of a naked woman in his bedroom," Jesus said.

"No shit?"

"It was a gift from Mrs. Washington," Matt said. "Mrs. Washington and I think of it as a splendid example of Victorian art."

"I gotta see this," Charley said, and went into the bedroom.

He returned carrying the oil painting.

"Over the fireplace, right?"

"Why not?" Charley said.

McFadden went to the fireplace, leaned the picture against it, and then took something from the mantelpiece. He walked to Matt with a snub-nosed revolver in the palm of each hand.

"Maybe you'd better keep these-one of them, anyway- with you. What are you doing with two?"

"One of them belongs to Wohl. He loaned it to me in the hospital. The shooting team took mine away from me. I just got it back."

McFadden sniffed the barrel of one of the revolvers and then the other.

"This must be yours," he said. "I'll clean it for you, if you have the stuff. Otherwise, you'll fuck up the barrel."

"There's cleaning stuff in one of the drawers in the kitchen," Matt said.

"You got any bullets? There's none in this."

"Cartridges,Charley.Bullets are the little lead things that come out the end. There's a box with the cleaning stuff."

"Fuck you, clean your own pistol," Charley said, laid both pistols beside the answering machine, and returned to the oil painting. He picked it up and held it in place over the fireplace, turning his head for approval.

"Great," Matt said.

"What are you going to do when your mother comes back?"

"Mother will modestly avert her eyes," Matt said.

"You got a brick nail?"

"What's a brick nail?"

"A nail you can drive in bricks. You can't do that with regular nails, asshole, they bend."

"No."

There was a knock at the door at the foot of the stairs.

Jesus erupted from his chair and went to the closet and took the shotgun from it.

"It's probably Wohl or Washington," Matt said.

"Who's there?" Jesus called.

"Telephone company."

Jesus went down the stairs. In a moment, he returned, followed by two telephone company technicians, one of whom was visibly curious and made more than a little uncomfortable by Jesus's shotgun.

"Where do you want your phone?" one of them asked.

"One here and one in the bedroom, please," Matt said.

"Is something going on around here?" the other one asked, curiosity having overwhelmed him.

"Like what?" Charley asked.

"Hey, you're the cop who shot the Liberation Army guy, aren't you?" the first one asked.

"Just put the goddamn phone in," Jesus snapped.

"What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked, is all."

It took forty-five minutes to install the two telephones. The installers refused a drink, but accepted Matt's offer of coffee.

"It's cold as a bitch out there," one said.

When they were gone, Martinez said, "That's not going to work."

"What's not going to work?"

"Having people knock on the door, and we ask who is it, and then go down and open the door."

"Why not?" Charley asked.

"What we need is an intercom," Jesus said. "They ring the bell, we ask the intercom who's there. I saw one in the store where I bought the tapes."

"Who would put it in?" Charley asked.

"I would."

"Do you really think it's necessary?" Matt said. "More to the point, do you think that anybody's really going to try to come up here?"

"They threw the firebomb at Monahan," Charley said.

"Jesus," Matt said.

"Save your money, if you want to," Jesus said. "They cost twenty-four ninety-five."

"You can install it?" Matt asked.

"You got a screwdriver, a drill, and a staple machine, I can install it."

"I think I've got a screwdriver, but I don't have a drill or a staple machine."

"You don't have a drill?" McFadden asked, surprised.

"No."

"How about a hammer? You're going to need a hammer for the brick nails."

"No hammer, either."

"Hay-zus can get a hammer and the brick nails and the drill and the staple machine when he gets the intercom," Charley said.

"Don't forget the screwdriver," Matt said, and shifted on the couch and took out his wallet.

"What the fuck, Payne, if they don't kill you, it'll come in handy later," Jesus said as he took three twenties. "If you've got some broad up here, and some other broad comes to see you, you could tell her you're busy on the intercom."

"I could also just not answer her knock," Matt said.

"You want the intercom or not? You're not doing me any favors."

"I want the intercom, Hay-zus, thank you."

Martinez returned in a little over half an hour, his arms full of kraft paper bags.

"Goddamn sidewalks are all ice," he said. "I almost busted my ass, twice."

"How would you like to be walking a foot beat in this weather?" McFadden asked.

"How about standing at Broad and Vine in a white cap, directing traffic?" Martinez said as he put the packages on the coffee table.

In one of the bags was a PhiladelphiaDaily News. He tossed it on Matt's lap.

"In case you don't know where you are," he said. "This is an ' undisclosed location.' "

"What?"

"You're on the front page," Jesus said.

Matt unfolded the newspaper. There was a photograph of him being carried to Coughlin's car at Frankford Hospital. Beneath it was the caption:

COP UNDER DEATH THREAT-As heavily armed police stand by, Officer Matthew M. Payne, whose life has been threatened by the Islamic Liberation Army is carried from Frankford Hospital to a police car that took him to an undisclosed location. Payne was wounded in the gun battle in which he shot to death ILA member Abu Ben Mohammed. (See ILA, Page 5)

Charley leaned over Matt's shoulder and read the caption.

"Well, the bastards got what they wanted, didn't they?" he asked. " The front page of theNews, and we sure look like we're scared of them."

"I don't know aboutyou being scared, white boy," Matt heard himself say, "butwe are."

McFadden looked at him curiously, and after a moment said seriously, "You'll be all right, buddy. You can take that to the bank."

There was a moment's awkward silence, which Jesus finally broke.

"The first thing you have to decide is where you want this end of the intercom."

"How about on the kitchen wall?"

"Why not?"

Matt was impressed with the skill with which Jesus installed the intercom. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. It reminded him of Charley's mechanical drawing skill, and that made him consider his own practical ineptitude.

Matthew Mark Payne, B.A., Cum Laude, University of Pennsylvania, you don't have one salable skill, something you could find a paying job doing, except being a cop, and, truth to tell, you ain't too good at that.

By half past five, the intercom was installed and tested.

"Anybody else getting hungry?" Matt asked as Jesus-workmanlike, Matt thought-neatly coiled the leftover wire and put the tools back in their boxes.

"I could eat something," Jesus said.

"I'm going to finish hanging your naked lady picture," Charley said, "and then leave. I'm going to have supper with Margaret. I'll be back at midnight and relieve Hay-zus."

"Bring her back here, and her friend Lari too, and we'll send out for food."

"No," Charley said. "For one thing, I wouldn't bring a nice girl like her anyplace where there's a naked lady hanging on the wall."

"You're kidding!"

"Her uncle and aunt are feeding us," Charley said. "We have to go there."

"Don't break your ass on the way to the subway," Jesus said.

"You don't have your car, do you?" Matt asked, and, when Charley shook his head, asked, "where is it, Bustleton and Bowler?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you leave it there and take the Porsche?"

"I don't know, Matt. I'd hate to tear it up."

"You can't leave a Porsche sit," Matt said. "And I damned sure can't drive it. Where'd you put the keys?"

"Jesus, I forgot!" Charley said, and pulled them from his trouser pocket.

"Take the car. Just try to keep it under a hundred and ten."

"Well, okay," Charley said, trying and failing to give the impression he would drive the Porsche only as a favor to Matt.

Five minutes after Charley left, the intercom was first put to use.

"Let me in, Hay-zus," Charley's voice announced mechanically from the speaker in the kitchen. "It's me."

Jesus went down and unlocked the door and Charley followed him back up the stairs.

"Wouldn't start?" Matt asked.

"The front tires are slashed," McFadden announced. "And they got the hood and doors with a knife or something."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Matt exploded.

"Did you look at the car when we came here?" Charley asked.

"No. Except to see that it was there. My mother's car was there. You couldn't see it clearly."

"Shit!"

The bell rang.

Martinez went into the kitchen.

"Who's there?"

"Peter Wohl."

"Just a minute, Inspector."

Wohl appeared at the head of the stairs carrying a large paper bag.

"I thought the patient might like a beer," he said, and then, when he saw the look on Matt's face, asked, "What's going on?"

"Those fuckers slashed my tires and did a scratch job on my hood and doors," Matt said. "Charley just found it that way."

Wohl walked into the kitchen and started putting the beer into the refrigerator.

"You just found this out, McFadden?"

"Yes, sir. I went down to get the car, and I saw it was down in front."

"And you didn't see any damage to it when they brought Matt here?"

"No, sir."

"We didn't look," Matt said.

"I just walked past it myself," Wohl said, "and didn't see anything out of the ordinary."

Wohl came into the living room and picked up the telephone beside Matt. He dialed a number from memory.

"This is Inspector Wohl," he announced. "Let me speak to the senior supervisor present."

I wonder who he's calling? Matt thought.

"Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant. We have a case of vehicular vandalism. The vehicle in question belongs to Officer Payne. I rather doubt we'll be able to find the vandals, but I want a complete investigation, especially photographs. Even dust the damned car for fingerprints. We may get lucky. It's in the parking lot under the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building on Rittenhouse Square. Payne lives in the topfloor apartment. I'll be here with him."

He put the telephone down.

"Inspector, I'm supposed to meet my girl," Charley said uncomfortably.

"Well, I guess that will have to wait, won't it?" Wohl snapped. " Central Detectives are on their way. Obviously, they'll want to talk to you."

"Yes, sir."

"No. Wait a minute," Wohl said, exhaling audibly. "What exactly did you see, Charley, when you went down to the garage?"

"When I started to unlock the door, I saw the nose was down. So I looked at the tires. And then I saw what they did to the hood and doors with a knife or something."

"You're coming on at midnight, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll tell the detectives what you told me," Wohl said. "Go ahead, Charley. I didn't mean to snap at you like that."

"That's okay, sir."

He hurried down the stairwell as if he was afraid Wohl would change his mind.

Wohl lost his temper, Matt thought. He was nearly as mad as I am about the car. No. That's impossible. Nobody can be nearly as fucking outraged as 1 am.

"Inspector, I was about to send out for supper for Hay-zus and me," Matt said. "Will you have something with us?"

"No pizza."

"Actually, I was thinking of either a London broil or a mixed grill. My father fixed it with the Rittenhouse Club."

"In that case, Officer Payne, I gratefully accept your kind invitation."